


An Answer for Night Hags

by Sarcophagus



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Irony, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 05:52:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcophagus/pseuds/Sarcophagus
Summary: They each have their own nightmares. A meeting of the minds isn't always possible.





	An Answer for Night Hags

Dakota and food have a special relationship. Anytime he hits a rough patch, food is there for him and helps him cope. Except when he's asleep. At night, when he's dreaming, he's on his own.

Sometimes he's aware it's just a dream. That doesn't really make a difference. Most of his nightmares are based on things that happened. The shitty experience isn't real now, but it's _been_ real.

He doesn't keep track of how often his nights are disturbed, but it's more often than he'd prefer. Luckily for anyone else he's slept with he's not a screamer. As a kid he learned to keep his head down and not make too much noise, and now his throat closes up if he tries.

Cavendish doesn't scream either. He thrashes around instead. One time he woke up Dakota with an elbow to the face. On the plus side, rooting through the freezer for a bag of peas for Dakota's nosebleed took his mind off whatever he'd been dreaming about.

They don't talk about it much. The idea is to get back to sleep, not yak it up all night. Besides, Dakota doesn't like to share unless he's talking to someone he'll never see again. That's just common sense.

When he wakes up to find Cavendish hunched over and staring, what Dakota does to get him out of his head is ask him to make them both some tea. All tea tastes like freshly warmed toilet cleaner to him, but it's worth his while because Cavendish makes such a production of it. Fill the strainer, heat the water to whatever degrees exactly, something something prewarmed pot and so on, relaxing more and more all the time. By the time he gets around to pouring out the stuff he's almost smiling.

When the lights are out Dakota holds him anyway, just to make sure.

Sometimes when they're clinging to each other in the dark Dakota thinks about a song his grandma used to sing while she was making frybread. He's forgotten half the words and doesn't know what the rest mean, but he hums the tune under his breath to bring back the smell of frying dough.

///

One night Dakota jerks awake as suddenly as if someone grabbed him and threw him out of bed. He sits up, breathing hard, not sure if he made a sound. The dream is oozing away, unwilling to let go. He knows he's safe, but his fists are clenched so hard it hurts.

The warm body next to him stirs, groans and turns over, bumping against his hip. "Why aren't you asleep?"

Dakota breathes in and out several times. "Heartburn," he says. It's true. Fucking dream knotted up his stomach like a coil of barbed wire. "Shouldn'ta eaten pigs in blankets right before bed. You know the wieners're made from actual pigs in this century?"

Cavendish doesn't care how the sausage gets made. He traces Dakota's outline in the dark, fingers clumsy with sleep, and finds his T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat. "Goodness, you're soaked. Better take off that shirt."

Dakota pulls the shirt over his head. The air that felt too hot and stuffy a minute ago is raising goosebumps all over his upper body. He dives under the covers and presses against Cavendish until the buttons on Cavendish's pajama jacket dig into his bare skin ("Get off, you're squashing me!"). Out of nowhere a shudder goes through him, then another.

Cavendish stops pushing him away. "What's the matter? Why are you shivering?"

(He's not, he's totally fine, he's not remembering anything.)

"I'm mostly naked," he says. "Getting cold is what happens after you nake."

Instead of taking the bait Cavendish switches on the bedside lamp. Dakota scrunches up his face in protest. When he un-scrunches it Cavendish is peering at him, looking him in the eyes. "You're not thinking about home, are you?"

Dakota goes still. How --? Did he talk in his sleep? He never mentions home. There's no point: it's not something he can go back and fix. And yet... if he's already spilled the beans, he could --

"I get homesick too," Cavendish says.

Oh.

"It's only natural," he continues. "We're used to the flying cars, the virtual libraries, the smart bathrooms, all the trappings of civilization. But we mustn't lose heart. With a bit of luck we might conceivably be able to return one day."

Dakota's studying the ceiling, his legs drawn up to make an inverted V under the covers. He doesn't seem convinced. Cavendish is puzzled and a little worried. While he misses his own time, perhaps more than befits a time traveler, Dakota took their exile in his stride. Staying up at night and brooding isn't his style at all.

Neither are pep talks Cavendish's style, but he has to find a way to cheer Dakota up. "In the meantime there's always the zoo. Lovely place, the zoo. With the giraffe and, er, --" What's in zoos, again? A whole lot of smelly beasts. "The other one." 

This isn't working. So much for pep talks. He pats Dakota's knee. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

Dakota gives him a small, tired smile.

"Yeah," he says. "You do that," and Cavendish hurries out of bed, already in his mind measuring out three spoonfuls of sugar in a cup of the black oolong that Dakota likes so much.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the name of a nonexistent book mentioned in _The Face in the Frost_ by John Bellairs.


End file.
